Like Coming Home
by humanveil
Summary: "If you had to describe me in one word, what would it be?"


**Disclaimer: Obviously they're not mine**

 **A/N: this isn't how I planned for this to turn out at all but anyway, I wrote it so I may as well upload it.**

 **I will forever be writing things set season 13 onwards because the notion that Elliot left Olivia without saying goodbye and never saw her again is ridiculously unbelievable and I will always be in denial. (and also bc I don't like the thought of Elliot actually cheating on Kathy and I can't see them staying together if he was at home all the time).**

 **ANYWAY, I don't think this is my best writing but let me know what ya thought. Liv's pov.**

x

Elliot had, over the years, asked you some ridiculously odd questions.

You can recall the unreasonably long nights you spent in the car together, talking while you waited for whatever sick perp you needed to catch. Those nights had sometimes been full of conversation, other times the comfortable silence would only be broken when necessary, and occasionally, when one of you got inquisitive, the hours were spent asking and answering questions. The questions had always varied across a wide range of topics, though you remember how often your personal lives had come up. You remember the aching feeling of wanting to discover _everything_ you could about him.

Eventually, you had grown used to his weird questions. It stopped surprising you when he'd turn to you out of nowhere and ask something like, _What's the colour of your toothbrush?_ , or _Why don't ghosts fall through floors?_

Tonight was like any other, except you weren't in a car waiting to catch some sicko. You were lying on the floor of your apartment, eyes drawn to where he lays sprawled out on your couch, with your body buzzing from the alcohol he'd convinced you to consume. The TV was on in the background, but Elliot had turned the volume down hours ago, annoyed at something some piece of shit politician had been saying, so now it was just your quiet voices filling the room.

This exact setting had become a new routine, of sorts. He'd showed up at your door not long after you returned from work, case of beer in hand, tired smile on his lips, and asked you if he could stay. One look at him, and you hadn't had the heart to say no.

You know things had been bad for him, since he left the department, since the divorce. You know he hates living on his own, hates not being able to see Eli every day, not having people around to distract himself with. You know his older children took Kathy's side and haven't been speaking to him much, or, in Richard's case, at all. You feel for him, you do.

He's been coming around more and more recently, and, though you don't admit it openly, you're glad he does. You hate not working with him; hate having to spend all that time with someone else, regardless of how much you've grown to like Nick. He wasn't Elliot, and sometimes, Elliot was exactly what you needed.

You've been discussing random things, irrelevant things, really. But you were happy to continue doing so, always happy to be with him, to discover more about his views or the weird thoughts that run through his head.

You'd never really had much time to do this while you'd been partners. You'd always been busy working, always been busy with the responsibilities being Detective Benson and Detective Stabler brought. Elliot leaving the department had allowed the two of to just be Elliot and Olivia, to simply exist knowing your good mood wasn't going to be destroyed with a new case, and for that, you were incredibly thankful.

"Livvy," he drawls, and you'd make a smart comment about the nickname but you're in too good of a mood to care.

Instead, you make a humming sound as a response, encouraging him to continue, and sit up, crossing your legs and placing a pillow in your lap.

"I have a question," he says, smiling.

"And what's that?"

Still smiling, he moves down to the floor, body manoeuvring until he's all but lying in your lap, head resting against the pillow. You're not sure where to put your hands, so you place them behind you, leaning back slightly as he turns on his side to face you. "Did you drink before you came here?" you can't help but ask, because he was never usually this close, this touchy.

"No," he mumbles, sounding like a tired child. "You're just comfortable. The perfect amount of squishy to hug."

Your laugh is more like a puff of air, and you shake your head at him. You're not entirely sure if you should take _squishy_ as a compliment or not. "What's your question?" You ask again, fully expecting something ridiculous at this point.

"If you had to describe me in one word, what would it be?"

You blink, one, twice, three times. That was not what you had expected. "In one word?" you repeat, thinking it over.

"Mmhm, like, one word that sums me up."

"How about 'absurd'?"

He laughs but shakes his head, "Not what I mean."

"What do you mean?"

"Like, one word that sums up my impact on you."

That was definitely not what you expected him to ask. "Like how you make me _feel_?" Butterflies spread throughout your stomach and you can feel the anxiety running through your veins like blood. You're not really sure how to get out of this one.

"Yeah," he grins, big and bright and beautiful. Those familiar blue eyes stare up at you, expectant, and you _know_ exactly how he makes you feel, but no amount of words could ever sum it up.

But he's looking at you like he needs to know the answer, like it'll solve all of his issues, and you don't want to disappoint. Sighing, you ask; "Can I be sappy?" His smile turns into a smirk and you can feel your face heating up slightly. You don't know why you're embarrassed, really. Or, rather, you do and you just don't want to think about it.

"Olivia Benson being sappy?" He asks, feigning shock, and you laugh, shoving him slightly. "Go ahead, be as sappy as you want. I won't mind."

You stare at him for a moment longer, sighing again. "I don't know the word for it."

"So explain it."

"I thought you wanted _one_ word."

"Liv," he whines, drawling the name out. "Just tell me."

"Okay, okay," you say, biting your lip gently. You can't believe you're about the voice this, but the alcohol has given you a little more courage than what you usually have. You move one of your hands back in front of you and reach down, tracing your fingers over his short hair gently. He's looking at you, dead in the eye, and you have to take a deep breath before you start.

"You know the feeling you get when you come home? Like, right after you close the door?" you ask, voice soft as if you're afraid of what'll happen if you speak too loud. "The sort of, I don't know–feeling of security that washes over you? Like, _I'm home now, nothing bad is going to happen to me."_

He's still looking up at you, eyes locked with yours and barely blinking. You can see him swallow before he breathes out, voice just as quiet as yours, "Yeah."

"I mean, it's not really true. Of course it's not," you say, almost rambling. "Bad things still happen when you're in your home, but there's that sense of safety that makes you think you can deal with it a little bit better. You- you make me feel like that." You finish, eyes trailing around your apartment rather than the man still lying in your lap. He doesn't say anything for a moment, and you think you've made a horrible, horrible mistake. And then;

" _That_ is how I make you feel?" he asks, and you know your face is probably bright red with embarrassment, because you've never been the best at this sort of thing, definitely never with him, anyway.

"Yeah," you whisper, dropping your hand back to your side as he moves to kneel in front of you.

"I make you feel like _coming_ _home_?"

"Did you not hear me?" you sigh, slightly irritated at yourself.

"Liv," he says, slowly. "Look at me."

You don't look, can't look, because regret is cashing over you like waves and you sorta, kinda, _really_ wish you could take it back. You feel like you've just crossed some sort of line that shouldn't have been crossed.

You feel a rough hand cup your cheek and you involuntarily lean into it, allowing Elliot to tilt your head to face him. You look at him, and the smile is back - the one that makes you simultaneously want to punch and kiss him. "I'm a fan of the sap," he states, matter-of-factly, and you can't help but laugh a little, bottom lip still resting between your teeth.

"El," you whisper, and you feel the calloused skin of his thumb softly pull your lip from between your teeth. Your heart is beating erratically, butterflies increasing with each passing second. There are so many things you want to say, want to confess, but you're too afraid he'll reject you.

"In fact," he continues, leaning in slightly. "I think we should be a bit sappier all of the time."

You think he's about to kiss you, it _looks_ like he's about to kiss you, but you don't want to hope in case he doesn't. "I'm sure _everyone_ would enjoy that," you say, and you wanted it to come out sardonically but it's more breathy, like you can't help the effect he's having on you.

"I'm not thinking about everyone else," he murmurs, and before you get the chance to reply, he's kissing you. Surprisingly soft lips are pressing against yours and you're so surprised that it's happening you forget to kiss back, you almost forget to breathe.

He brings his other hand to the nape of your neck, coaxing his tongue inside your mouth and soon enough you're panting, hands clutching onto his shirt as your mouth moves against his. The million thoughts that had been running through your head disappear and you focus on the kiss, focus on the feel of Elliot's lips on ours, of his hands on your skin.

It feels _so fucking good_ and you've wanted it for _so fucking long,_ and God, you're _so fucking glad_ he decided to ask you the question.


End file.
